


Let's Play A Game

by redreaper86



Category: The Batman (Movie 2021)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Colin Farrell Penguin, Duct Tape, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Insecurity, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Murder, Past Child Abuse, Paul Dano Riddler, Rated e for chapter 6, Riddlebird 2022, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27156404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redreaper86/pseuds/redreaper86
Summary: At forty-six years old, Oswald Cobblepot is still just another goon. He's been working for Carmine Falcone since he was a punk teenaged kid. And what does he have to show for it? Absolutely nothing. He used to have such lofty ambitions but now he is in a major rut in his life -- a rut the Riddler, who has been stalking Oswald for months, is more than happy to kidnap him out of.
Relationships: Oswald Cobblepot/Edward Nygma
Comments: 68
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

A metallic _flick_ sounded, then a bright spot of orange flared in the darkness, illuminating the squat, dilapidated figure of one of Don Carmine Falcone’s more memorable thugs -- Oswald Cobblepot, otherwise known as the Penguin -- standing on the back porch of the Falcone safe house, lighting up a cigarette.

No one ever called him 'the Penguin' to his face though. Never to his face -- jowley, scar-riddled visage that it was, bespeaking the terrible things he'd done and that had been done to him.

He inhaled the smoke, held it in his lungs, cancer be damned, then exhaled it in a plume of noxious smoke, which enveloped his head in a warm cloud before dissipating into the cold night air.

It was pathetic, really, that the only thing that still gave him pleasure was also slowly killing him. He took another drag off his cigarette and contemplated his mediocre existence.

At forty-six years old, he was still just another goon. He'd been doing this -- working for Carmine Falcone -- since he was a punk teenaged kid. And what did he have to show for it? All the snubs, the sneers, the tiny everyday humiliations he'd put up with all those years? None of that ever stopped. In fact, now that he was approaching middle age, with his hair thinning and his waistline expanding, his bad leg hurting with every small bout of bad weather, he got even less respect.

Looking down at his clothes, the cheap shiny suit and the old leather trench coat, Oswald curled his lip in disgust. He couldn't even afford decent clothes for the mayor's funueral. His dear mother would be turning in her grave if she knew.

A thick impotent fury enveloped him as he thought back to the events of the day. The sumptuous Selina Kyle clinging to Falcone’s arm, dressed at the height of fashion, all on Falcone’s dime of course. Oswald wondered what the old man would say if he knew it was Selina who'd put those scratches on his face while she was in her feline alter ego, before she'd confronted him with the fact that she was his long-lost daughter. The real kicker was Oswald couldn't even blame the little cat for her ambition. Good on her. It wasn't her fault she was much better at getting what she wanted out of life than Oswald.

Great. He was reduced to living vicariously through others -- that was how far he'd fallen.

A twig snapped and Oswald dropped his cigarette and drew his gun, training it in the direction of the noise, his every sense on high alert. The whole reason he was out here at the safe house with the Falcones was because a serial killer known as the Riddler was targeting rich and affluent men, torturing them in horrifically inventive ways, then killing them, leaving word puzzles addressed to the Batman at the crime scenes. Ridiculous moniker aside, the Riddler was the only individual who seemed to strike actual fear into Falcone -- and if it weren't for the fact that he, Oswald, would certainly be collateral damage in the Riddler's quest to kill Falcone, he would let the killer into the house -- _have at it, you little freak! Kill the motherfucker_.

Shit, there he was again, living vicariously through other people. Why couldn't he just kill Falcone himself?

Another rustling sound came from the opposite direction, Oswald swung his gun to accommodate, tamping down the rising panic that was expanding in his chest. A thought occurred to him to call for backup from the house which he dismissed as quickly as it came to him. If this turned out to be a false alarm there would be no end to the ribbing he would get from the other goons and he was not about to put up with one more ounce of disrespect.

A beat passed. No more noise came from either direction. Oswald lowered his gun just an inch. Still nothing. Just wind ruffling through the empty dead branches of the surrounding poplars. After another beat, he let himself relax, stowing his gun in the holster just under his armpit and reaching into his inside coat pocket for another cigarette.

And it was at that precise moment he heard a soft footstep behind him and before he could even draw another breath, an arm wrapped around his neck and a chloroform-soaked cloth clamped down over his nose and mouth.

Adrenaline sluicing his veins, Oswald couldn't stop himself from gasping, mentally cursing himself as he involuntarily breathed in the harsh chemicals that would soon render him helpless to the Riddler -- for he was sure this was who his assailant was.

Already his limbs were growing heavy, boneless, even as he fought to grab the shadowy figure behind him. He made a few valiant efforts at escape, all with the chlorophorm cloth covering his face, before inky darkness clouded his vision and his whole body went deliciously slack, just like falling asleep.

The last sensation he felt before blacking out completely was hands tugging at his ankles and his arms sweeping up above his head as his attacker dragged him away.


	2. Chapter 2

_Skrick. Skriiiiiiick. Skriiiiiiii-iiiiick_.

Those ominous sounds were the first sensation Oswald became aware of. He opened his eyes to only a slightly lighter shade of darkness. He blinked, trying to dispell his night-blindness, discovering that his mouth was sealed closed with a strip of something extremely adhesive --

\-- duct tape, he realized, his skin crawling as his worst fears were realized: his attacker was the Riddler after all. He tried to move only to discern his wrists were bound as well, fastened behind the back of the metal folding chair he was sitting in, his ankles also trussed to the legs of it.

"Ahh, so you're finally awake, birdie," a soft voice whispered from across the room. (Room? C-can? R.V.? Whatever the chamber was, it was small and rectangular.) "Good. I need an audience."

Oswald'sheart skipped a beat at being addressed by this madman. There was another short _skrick_ noise and a deep masculine grunt that did not come from the Riddler. Oswald's eyes widened. He wasn't the only one kidnapped from the Falcone safe house.

A shuffling step then a _flinty_ click and a trouble-light dangling from a hook in the ceiling turned on, the murky yellow light illuminating the meagre surroundings (which was actually the back of a huge van with no windows, a must-have vehicle for a serial killer), the dark green leather mask, eyeglasses and long green coat of the Riddler, and the slumped-over trussed-up form of --

\-- Tommy 'the Knife' Flanagan. Taped to a chair, just like Oswald was. The Riddler bent over Tommy and slapped him lightly on the cheek.

"Wakey, wakey, sleepy-head..." the Riddler sang, still administering these delicate pats to the scarred cheek. But Tommy just groaned and tried to go back to sleep so the Riddler drew his hand back --

\-- and slapped Tommy real hard in the face. "WAKE UP!" the Riddler bellowed. And Tommy did, his buggy blue eyes nearly popping out of his head, wheezing painfully behind the duct tape.

"Hi," the Riddler chirped, waving his gloved fingers at the terrified man. "I wanna play a game."

If anything, this whimsical statement declared in this chipper voice only frightened Tommy the more. The once terrifying goon, who hadn't been dubbed 'the Knife' because of his extensive cutlery collection, began squirming and mewling like some kind of swaddled baby. The Riddler reached down and ripped the duct tape off of Tommy's mouth, unlocking the torrent of threats, bribes and pleadings that only come from someone who knows they are dead meat.

"Be quiet, please," the Riddler requested politely, "and play a game with me. And then maybe I'll think about letting you go." 

That calmed Tommy down somewhat.

"Thank you," the Riddler said, and pulled a box cutter out of his pocket. The revelation of the insidious weapon started Tommy right back up again. "The game is this," the Riddler said, raising his voice to be heard over Tommy's howling, "I ask you a riddle, you answer it. You answer wrong, I kill you. You answer correctly, I let you go. Think you can handle that, champ?"

Tommy could _not_ handle it. He was in full panic mode, reiterating the same stupid pleas to please let him go -- he won't tell anyone, honest -- you're gonna be so fucking sorry for this, you sick freak.

Oswald couldn't believe the outright idiocy of the man. He made himself a mental promise that when it came his turn to face the Riddler, he would show no fear, he wouldn't allow panic to make a poltroon of him.

"Riddle me this:" the Riddler went on, his voice ringing above Tommy's din. "I was born backwards. I came out of my mother the wrong way. I hear words go past me backwards. The people I should love, I hate. The people I should hate, I love. Who am I?"

Predictably, Tommy yelled that he didn't know the answer, what kind of sick question is that?

Oswald closed his eyes in exasperation. How had he worked with this guy for twenty years and not clued in to how suicidally stupid he was? That just went to show how sedated Oswald had become to the mediocrity of his own life.

"Answer the riddle," the Riddler said, his tones wheedling, coaxing, "and I do you a favour -- I'll let you go no matter what answer you give me, even if it's wrong."

"Fuck you, you sick fuck!"

"You didn't," the Riddler growled, raising the box cutter, "even try." With a quick sideways slash of his arm he opened the Knife's throat, the sound of arterial spray hitting the metal floor tinny, musical.

The Riddler stood panting over the corpse for a moment. Then he turned, grabbed Oswald's duct tape gag and tore it off.

"Will you answer the riddle, birdie?"

"Sure," Oswald said, then swallowed. "Uh, what was it again?"

The Riddler repeated the riddle.

"'Born backwards, came out of your mum the wrong way...'" Oswald spoke as slowly as he could, trying to mentally put the pieces together. "'People you should love, you hate...people you should hate, you love...'"

"'I hear words go past me backwards,'" the Riddler put in helpfully. "'Who am I?'"

Oswald took the plunge: "You."

"Me?" the Riddler pointed to his own chest. "That's your final answer?"

Oswald stared right at the masked feind, certain that his end was nigh. "Yes."

The Riddler tilted his head, considering. "Sure!" he said finally. "Okay, that works." He turned and almost jovially started cutting Tommy's corpse out of its duct tape bonds.

"So...did I get the answer right?" Oswald asked desperately. "Are you going to let me go now?"

The Riddler sniggered and shook his head as he dragged Tommy's corpse to the back of the van where the doors were. "No and no. _I_ don't even know the answer because that wasn't a riddle. I just put some weird sentences together that sounded good.

"But at least you tried to answer it! That's what makes you different from _him_. That's what makes you special, birdie."

Oswald closed his eyes and tipped his head back. He had a number-one fan. Well, this night just kept getting better and better.


	3. Chapter 3

Several hours of driving passed by until the natural light of morning eventually shone through the windshield to the dingy back of the van where Oswald was trussed up. He groaned and rolled his neck to a salvo of popping sounds. Everything ached, from his nicotine-deprived head right down to his gouty big toe. 

The Riddler parked the van, turned off the engine, then started rooting around in the front passenger seat. Oswald craned his neck to see what his kidnapper was up to, immediately regretting the action as it sent a shooting pain from the nape of his neck all the way down his spine and he couldn't hold back a grunt of pain.

"Sorry about the accommodations," the Riddler said, climbing to the back with a can of ravioli in one hand and a can-opener in the other. He was still wearing his mask. "I really wish I could offer you more, seeing as how you're my soul mate and all, but to stay ahead of the law I gotta be able to move around." He set to work on the can, the sound of metal slicing metal filling the small space.

Oswald was silent for a beat, processing just exactly what the Riddler had just said. " _Soul mate_?"

At that very moment, the lid popped off the can and fell on the floor to roll under Oswald's chair. Fortunately for his prisoner, the Riddler's attention was diverted as he picked through a rusty tool box, saying: "forks, forks, where are the forks," and Oswald carefully covered the can lid with his foot. It had a nice jagged edge which might come in handy later.

"Bingo!" The Riddler cried, holding up a silver fork that looked like it had seen cleaner days. The Riddler seemed to notice this too, because he tried to polish the begrimed utensil on the sleeve of his coat -- where there were several dark splatters of Tommy the Knife's dried blood. Then the Riddler speared the less-than-sanitized fork into the ravioli can, withdrawing a tomato sauce soaked pasta pillow and presenting it to his captive.

Oswald repressed a gag. "I, um -- I'm not really that hungry." His stomach, the traitor, growled loudly in protest.

"No more lies," the Riddler giggled. "C'mon, open up, pretty bird. Here comes the choo-choo train..."

His insides squirming with embarrassment, Oswald let the Riddler feed him the cold, clammy pasta square. After he ate it, he asked the question the Riddler hadn't answered before. "What did you mean when you called me your soul mate?"

"What I said," the Riddler speared another ravioli and fed it to Oswald. "I'd been staking out the Falcones for months. Among all those spoiled, privileged fakes I saw someone real. I saw you. You were yearning for more than a life as some crime boss's goon. I could see it in your eyes. You wanted better for yourself but you were just too..." the Riddler glanced up, searching for the right phrase, perking up when he found it. "Too _stuck in a rut_ to do anything about your crappy life. So I thought I'd free you. You're welcome."

"I didn't say 'thank you.'"

"You will." The Riddler sounded so confident in this that Oswald almost believed him. Almost.

"If we're really soul mates," Oswald said, deciding to test the waters, "then why am I still tied up?"

"Because you haven't said 'thank you' yet."

Oswald opened his mouth to remedy that omission and the Riddler stuffed another forkful of cold ravioli into it, effectively shutting him up.

"Be very careful with your words," the Riddler said, his pale eyes hardening behind his glasses. "Because I can always tell when someone's lying to me. And I hate liars. I kill liars. So only the truth, please."

As soon as Oswald's mouth was clear he said: "You're a sick, delusional psychopath."

"You see, that's _good_ ," the Riddler cooed, like a mother teasing a cute baby. "That's _honesty_. The foundation of all good relationships. Open."

Oswald did, accepting the gross canned food, knowing he would need his strength if he was going to cut his way out of his duct tape bonds with the jagged can lid and overpower this riddle-loving loony tune.

What he would do after that, he didn't know. The thought of going back to work for Carmine Falcone repelled him. The Riddler was right about one thing -- Oswald _had_ been stuck in a rut, a rut his kidnapper had gotten him out of.

And for that Oswald was truly thankful.


	4. Chapter 4

"I gotta take a piss. " Oswald said as soon as he'd cut through the duct tape bonds on his wrists -- underneath, so that the Riddler wouldn't be able to see the severance.

It wasn't really a lie, he did have to go, but it wasn't nearly as urgent as he made it out to be. The Riddler, to his credit, immediately pulled over and climbed to the back to hurriedly cut through the bonds on Oswald's ankles and across his chest.

Oswald was careful to hold his hands together behind his back so that when the Riddler hoisted him up by his upper arm it looked like his wrists were still bound.

The Riddler opened the back doors to the van, helped Oswald down -- very carefully. When Oswald slipped on a patch of ice, he braced himself for a hard fall on the pavement (as he was not about to give himself away by putting out his unbound arms to catch himself), but the Riddler caught him around the waist before he hit the ground.

"Whoa," the Riddler said, helping Oswald stand up again, "you okay?"

Oswald looked deep into the wide light green eyes staring at him with such deep concern behind the mask. Their faces were only about four inches apart.

"Thank you," Oswald said truthfully and head-butted the Riddler as hard as he could. The masked man collapsed into the snow like a house of cards where he lay sprawled, out cold.

Pulling his arms free from the duct tape bonds, Oswald grabbed the unconscious Riddler's arm and hoisted the man's limp body over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. With significant agility considering his bad leg and the load he was carrying, he clambered into the back of the van and closed the doors. 

He sat the comatose Riddler in the very metal chair he, Oswald, had been taped to, grabbed a handy roll of duct tape and set to work. By the time he was finished he'd practically mummified the Riddler in duct tape.

There was a faint groan behind the mask and Oswald snatched it off, catching the glasses as they nearly tumbled to the floor. The Riddler's head hung over his chest, a mop of shaggy brown hair obscuring his face. Oswald took a handful of that hair and pulled the Riddler's head back, exposing a face that was heartbreakingly young and innocent -- not handsome but definitely not homely either. Those jade-coloured eyes Oswald had seen through the mask were closed now, their long lashes not even so much as fluttering.

Oswald shook his head -- this was a serial killer, a psychopath and a sadist. He'd kidnapped Oswald and low-key threatened to kill him and here he was getting distracted by his cuteness.

On impulse, Oswald duct taped the Riddler's mouth too. That way when he woke up Oswald wouldn't have to listen to any threats or insults from him. He'd had enough of those from nearly everyone in his life, he didn't need them from this sweet-faced young killer who'd been foolish enough to think Oswald was his soul mate.

Having thus secured the Riddler, Oswald exited the back of the van and slammed the doors. Pulling a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, he lit it and smoked for a while as he decided what to do next.

He certainly wasn't going back to work for Carmine Falcone. Knowing that bastard, he'd probably written Oswald off as dead and already replaced him.

It struck him that he was free now. Free as a bird. He had a new lease on life, all thanks to the Riddler -- which was the only reason the latter was only bound and gagged and not dead.

Oswald finished his cigarette, tossed it into the snow. Then he releived himself because where he was going, he had a long drive ahead of him.


	5. Chapter 5

Upon finally arriving at his destination two and a half hours later, Oswald killed the engine and the mind-numbingly idiotic radio interview with Bruce Wayne, who'd just informed the interviewer that he thought there was a little goblin living inside him that told him things. How the boy had _not_ wound up in Arkham Asylum yet...

A muffled keening sound from the back jolted Oswald from his thoughts. _The Riddler_. Oswald scrambled to the back of the van, his mind filled with all kinds of horrors -- had the Riddler somehow gotten hold of something sharp and hurt himself? Maybe he had some sort of pre-existing medical condition and needed to take pills or injections every few hours? Maybe he'd bitten his tongue off during the bumpy drive?!

The young man's face was soaked with tears which dripped all the way down to his chin, and his nose was running disgustingly over the duct tape gag. When he saw Oswald his eyes widened with what looked like joy and his mangled pleas became all the more urgent. Oswald tore the tape off of the Riddler's mouth.

"P-please," the wretched creature in the chair wept, "let me go now? I'll be good. I'll be good. I promise. I'm so sorry --" -- he burst into tears again -- "for whatever I did that was bad --"

Oswald's blood ran cold. This was worse -- this was _so_ much worse worse than what he'd feared. "Hey, now, it's all right, kiddo," he said, his tones gentle, hushed. "I'm gonna get you out of here, okay?"

The young man stared at him, his face all wet and blotchy red. "Who're you?"

"A friend," Oswald told him as he sawed through the duct tape bonds. "My name's Oswald. What's yours?"

"Edward." The young man hiccupped wetly.

Oswald cut through cut through the last strand of duct tape and Edward surged forward, flinging his arms around Oswald's neck, where he continued his piteous pleading: "I'll be good now, I promise, just please don't go away again, please don't leave me alone anymore..."

"Shh, shh, kiddo, I'm here." Oswald said soothingly, rocking the younger man a little, his heart racing as he relived some horrible childhood memories of his own. "I'm here."

They stayed like that for a few moments, tangled together in the back of the van. Then Oswald pulled away slightly, guiding a still sobbing Edward out the back doors. The cold, wintry wind hit them and Edward hid his face in Oswald's neck.

"I don't like this," he whimpered. "I wanna go back."

"It's just a bit of snow, you big baby," Oswald said and scooped Edward up into his arms. "It'll be worth it, you'll see."

Oswald may have been freezing, with his bad leg aching, carrying a full grown man who'd kidnapped him and worse: fed him cold gross canned pasta, but he was in a splendiferous mood.

The new-fallen snow squeaked under his shoes as he walked along the path he'd taken so many times before, the surrounding fir trees heaped with so much snow that they looked like they were smothered in royal icing. The little log cabin eventually came into view, and he breathed a sigh of utter happiness that he was here at his safe haven at last and, more importantly, that he had someone to share it with.

Oswald fished out his keys and unlocked the cabin door, carrying Edward over the threshold as though he were a bride instead of a serial killer who'd just had a nervous breakdown.

Oswald started a fire, a shaking Edward still clinging to his sleeve, then they both collapsed onto the couch.

Edward, laying directly on top of Oswald, fell asleep immediately, and though Oswald tried to keep his eyes open to keep the hideous memory at bay, they closed all the same and the familiar nightmare decended upon him like a heavy blanket made of barbed wire.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter depicts extreme child abuse, both mental and physical, and to a lesser extent, mental abuse of a spouse. It is very disturbing and heartbreaking, so please, dear reader, brace yourself.

He is a child in this dream, this memory -- a serious-faced, beetle-browed, stocky little boy of about six years of age. Standing in the Cobblepot Manor which had been his childhood home. And he is frightened, terrified.

"You want to act like a dog, boy?" his stepfather says to him. "You want to bite the hand that feeds you?"

There are teeth-marks on his stepfather's hand, Oswald's own, he knows. He hears his mother sobbing behind him but he dares not turn around to look at her.

"You want to act like a dog," his stepfather reiterates, his lips curling up in cruel amusement, "then you'll be treated like one. Take off your clothes. Dogs go naked, surely."

Oswald stares at him in horror, and Oswald's mother gives an outraged wail behind him.

"He's only a child!" she cries. "He knows he was naughty to bite and he's very sorry, aren't you, Oswald?"

"Y-yes," Oswald stammers through cold, numb lips. "I'm very sorry." Even though he knows it won't do him any good. He's seen the spark of malice dancing in his stepfather's black eyes.

"You coddle the boy, Gertrud," his stepfather says to his mother. "Don't get hysterical, children are punished all the time. A bit of discipline isn't going to kill him. Now, boy," he says to Oswald, " remove your clothes or I will do it for you."

Oswald's face burns and with shaking fingers he obeys.

"Now get on all fours. Like a dog."

Oswald's breath catches in his throat, pain blooms in his chest, the backs of his eyes ache and he wills his mother to sweep in and save him -- to pick him up, wrap him in a blanket and run as fast and as far from this monster as possible. But he knows she never will. So he gets on his hands and knees, biting his lip so hard that it bleeds because he will not -- _will not_ \-- cry for this man. But even then his stepfather's cruelty is not sated.

"Do you see this cage, boy?" he gestures to a small dog crate that Oswald hasn't seen before. "I had it brought special for you. It will be your new home until you start behaving like a human being instead of a wild animal."

The cage is so small, Oswald can't even sit up straight. There is a thin sheet over it that does nothing for warmth, only ensures he can't see out. All night he waits in that cramped space, hungry, thirsty and cold. Once he thinks he hears his mother's soft crying close by the cage, or smells her perfume, but his mind must have been playing tricks on him. His stepfather would never allow his mother to visit him.

In the morning he hears voices, his stepfather's tone indulgent, patronizing; his mother's childlike treble overjoyed, overtly grateful.

"You're making me go soft, Gertrud, letting the boy out early. I had a good mind to leave him in there for a week, but how can I refuse that pretty face of yours?"

"You are too kind to us, my dear! I assure you Oswald has learned his lesson. He is..." here a sob chokes her, "...such a bright child. Please...may I have the key?"

"First a kiss."

Oswald grinds his teeth with hatred as he listens to the disgusting suctioning sounds of his monstrous stepfather kissing his poor weak little mother, making her grovel to him to win her child back.

Finally -- _finally_ \-- the sheet is ripped off, his mother throws herself down on her knees, works the key frantically into the lock, flings the door open.

Oswald keeps his face buried in his knees, determined not to look at her, determined to hate her forever for marrying this monster who degraded him so -- degraded the both of them.

"Oswald?" his mother's voice trembles.

At last Oswald looks up at her, with her huge blue eyes and wild blonde hair, holding open his favourite lavender fuzzy blanket for him. And it is then and only then that the tears he's been stubbornly holding back all night flow freely as he crawls into his mother's arms and she wraps the blanket around him and holds him.

"Baby, baby, baby," his mother keeps saying, crying into his hair as she rocks him. Over her shoulder Oswald can see his stepfather watching them, those dark glittering eyes like black holes, siphoning any joy or dignity from this reunion, leaving only pain and ignominy.

Oswald's mother only lives for five more years. As soon as she dies, Oswald runs away from home and never looks back.


	7. Chapter 7

Oswald woke up with dried tear tracks running across his temples. It took a few seconds for him to realize that his mother and stepfather were long dead and Cobblepot Manor was falling apart, the only thing keeping squatters and vandals at bay were the rumors of fatal booby traps that riddled the mansion and wild packs of man-eating penguins roaming the decrepit halls. (The last one was probably an urban legend spun in the darkest slums of the Narrows. Probably, but you never could tell with Gotham City.)

He sat up, realizing that the Riddler -- Edward -- was nowhere in sight. There was sizzling sounds and a delicious smell coming from the kitchen. Oswald got up, his mouth watering, looking around the cabin as he did. There were the nine Faberge eggs he'd taken from the mansion when he'd ran away from home all those years ago, sitting in a row on the mantle. His failed machine gun umbrella inventions in the corner. He'd had such ambition twenty years ago. He was going to restore Cobblepot Manor to its former glory, become a highly respected philanthropist. Maybe even run for mayor. What had happened to all that?

"Oswald?"

The addressed turned to see Edward, wearing a frilly pink apron which clashed violently with his dingy green clothes, standing by the dinner table set for two, a steaming tuna casserole topped with little fish-shaped biscuits in his oven mitt covered hands.

"Dinner's ready."

For the second time in the course of a few hours Oswald felt his eyes mist over.

Dinner was a quiet affair, for the both of them. Edward seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, picking away at his plate, while Oswald proceeded to wolf down helping after helping until --

"Wow." Edward blinked at the empty casserole pan. "Somebody was a hungry bird." He himself had already pushed away his own plate with a perfectly untouched biscuit on it which Oswald couldn't help but eye.

"You gonna eat that?"

Laughing, Edward slid the plate with the biscuit over to him. "So much for leftovers," he said.

"You should have made more, then," Oswald said through a mouthful of biscuit.

"More?" Edward exclaimed, laughing even harder. "That was a six-serving casserole! I had one helping and you had the rest. Plus my biscuit. Do the math."

Oswald groaned and put a hand on his stomach which was straining mightily against his waistband. "I may have overdone it with that last biscuit."

"And those last three servings, maybe?" Edward rose from his chair and all but sashayed over to Oswald, his jade green eyes sparkling. "You're about ready to burst your buttons."

Oswald blushed, hard. Edward grinned, touching his tongue to his eyetooth, obviously delighted at the reactions he was eliciting. In a movement as fluid as water, he sat in Oswald's lap, causing the latter to flinch.

"Look at this belly," Edward said, prodding the subject of his conversation. "See how full you've stuffed it? You used to hunger after so many other things, Oswald."

Oswald's face was burning so hot he was sure Edward could feel the heat coming off it. "How do you know?" he managed.

Edward smirked. "It's obvious, looking around this place. The Faberge eggs? The machine gun umbrella prototypes? Oh, and, uh..." he pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket that had a crude ballpoint pen drawing on it, "...A design for an umbrella-copter?"

"Where did you find that?" Oswald closed his eyes in embarrassment. He'd thought he'd thrown that out years ago.

"Gubbled up under the bed. Yeah, I went exploring," he said when Oswald raised his eyebrows at him, "and a good thing too, because these ideas are brilliant."

"They are ridiculous."

"You'd be surprised how often 'ridiculous' and 'brilliant' go hand in hand," Edward said, looking at the drawing again. "I could build this."

Oswald scoffed disbelievingly. "You could build an umbrella-copter that could actually carry me?"

"Not only can I build it to carry _you_ , but also _me_ , plus the extra twenty pounds you're going to gain if you keep gorging yourself this way. Not," Edward whispered, his nose brushing Oswald's ear, "that I'm complaining."

Oswald reddened again. "You are the weirdest person I've ever met," he muttered, squirming under Edward as the latter took a deep sniff of his neck.

"Why?" Edward murmured, desire deepening his voice as he pressed his soft, lissom lips against Oswald's plump, pitted cheek. "Because I know what I want and I take what I want? I wanted you," his warm palms slid down Oswald's stomach causing the latter to gasp with pleasure, "so I took you. There was nothing you could do to stop me."

"You make me sound like some helpless damsel in distress," Oswald grunted, half amused, half resentful.

"Oh, but you are helpless," Edward teased, "and in a great deal of distress, glutted as you are, far too fat and clumsy to escape me now. You are completely at my mercy," he purred in Oswald's ear and the latter, breaking into goosebumps, knew this was true.

"I can be as _mean_ to you as I want," Edward breathed, squeezing two handfuls of Oswald's lower belly, "or as _nice_ to you as I want."

He relaxed his grip and began caressing Oswald's belly again, his lips brushing against the deep scar that ran from Oswald's cheek, under his nose, and through his upper lip. "But I think I'll be nice to you. I think enough people have been mean to you in your life."

A sob escaped Oswald, causing his bloated body to struggle further against the bonds of his ill-fitting suit. "How much," he choked, "did you hear?"

"Enough to know," Edward said, reaching up to cradle Oswald's face tenderly between his hands, "that you are not a dog, Oswald. Just a very cute, very gluttonous penguin."

Oswald gave a watery laugh, sliding his hands from where they had been resting loosely on Edward's thighs to grip the other man's waist and pull him close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end...or is it? I'm working on a small sequel with our boys in their cabin in the woods called _Just Me And You_. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left such kind encouraging comments and kudos on this story! <3


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